


Paid in Full

by xylodemon



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-24
Updated: 2006-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jack Sparrow barters for a compass that doesn't point North.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paid in Full

Evening slid upriver like one of the fat snakes curled in the branches of the trees. A heavy, stilted breeze pushed its way through the reeds as the sun bled slowly toward the horizon. Jack rowed quietly, pulling against the lazy current, listening as the murky water lapped at his boat.

He found her shack waiting for him around the next bend. It looked no different than any other shack he'd passed. It was slightly larger, and it seemed to tilt a bit to the left. Jack stowed his oars as his boat bumped the bank and tied his line to the landing.

The stairs groaned under his boots. The old man had told Jack to knock three times. Jack had found him at the mouth of the river, lashing a raft on the bank, and his eyes had widened when Jack told him who he sought. Knock three times, and she'd let Jack in if she felt he was a friend.

Jack narrowed his eyes at the door; it agreed with the shack's desire to lean to one side, and the knob was more rust than metal. He needed a drink, and his brand itched like the Devil. He raised his fist, but the door creaked open just as his knuckles brushed the rough-hewn wood.

He smiled. An invitation if he'd ever seen one.

The humidity was just as fierce inside, and the floorboards creaked worse than the stairs. The shack was cramped from clutter, and Jack smelled rum and sweat mixed with spices he couldn't quite place. He had the feeling he was being watched, and he was content to blame the jar of pickled eyeballs dangling at his shoulder until she spoke.

Somehow, she was behind him.

"I do not think I gave you leave to come inside."

"Your door gave me leave, although I assumed it had consulted you first," Jack said, offering her a sheepish smile. He expected her to be older. Uglier. Perhaps a bit hunched. "What can I say? The house seemed to take to me."

The door apologised for its presumption by clicking itself shut, and she made a soft noise -- almost a hum. She brushed past him, a wave of heat followed by a rustle of skirts, and Jack closed his eyes, breathed her in. He hadn't been this close to a woman in weeks.

"Jack Sparrow," she said.

"Captain," he corrected. A neat trick -- guessing his name like that -- but it was probably best he didn't dwell on how she did it. "Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Captain," she murmured, tasting the word on her tongue as her eyes tracked him from stem to stern. "Dat remains to be seen, don't it?" She stepped closer and smiled like a knife. "Let me see your arm."

"My what?"

"Your arm," she repeated, extending her hand. He offered her his left, but she shook her head sharply. "Your other arm."

She leaned forward when he paused and helped herself to a handful of his sleeve. She yanked it up, frowning at the P seared above his wrist. The burn itself was starting to take the thick, whitish look of a scar already healed, but the skin around it was still pink and sore.

"You may call me Tia Dalma," she said finally, "and you may sit, if you like." She released him, and gestured to a table in the centre of the room. "Rum?"

"You're too kind."

The man on the river bank had looked at Jack like Jack didn't know what he was sailing into. The pile of crab claws on the table suggested the man might have been right. Jack sat slowly, taking care not to disturb the claws, or the bowl of strange, shrivelled nuts, or the small bottle of what looked like blood.

Tia Dalma returned with two mugs and a jug of rum. Jack reached for the jug -- mugs were just a waste of time, really, time and energy and perfectly clean crockery -- but she slapped him away and handed him a small pottery jar. The stuff inside was thick, oily, and roughly the colour of tar, and he sniffed the cork stopper suspiciously.

"What's this?"

"For your brand," she said. She poured a healthy measure of rum in each mug and set the bottle aside. "It hurts?"

"No," Jack lied. She raised an eyebrow, and Jack shrugged. "It may itch some. A little." He cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. "Maybe. Now and then."

"Den take it," she said, smiling. "It will help you forget to scratch."

"Ta." He tucked the jar into his pocket and hefted his mug. "As for why I am imposing on your hospitality--"

"You are troubled," she finished, leaning back in her chair. "Your heart is broken."

"Is it?" he asked, glancing at his chest.

"You have lost something," she continued, "something you hold dear." She rolled a crab claw between her fingers the way men who played at dice often did with coins. "I do not think a woman. Most de women you know, you would be glad to lose dem."

Jack laughed. "Preferably at sea."

"At sea, say you." Her fingers paused, and she tapped the claw lightly on the table. "Your ship, say I. Dis is what you seek."

"The Black Pearl," Jack said. He straightened his hat. "I am her captain."

"I told you, dat remains to be seen." She dropped claw as she rose from her chair; it hit the table with a sharp noise. "You may ask me three questions. But first, we discuss payment."

"Payment?"

"Payment." She approached him, and sat on the edge of the table. Her leg bumped his knee, and her smile was feline, dangerous. "I am a free woman, but I am not free."

"Of course," he said. He pulled a black and silver ring from his smallest finger and dropped it on the table. He rather liked it; he'd pinched it from a Tortuga whore. "Payment?" he asked hopefully.

She shook her head.

"My lady, I'm in a bit of a spot, so to speak," Jack said, sighing. "I'm without my ship, which means, I am without means. Or a way." His hands fluttered in a somewhat helpless gesture. "Without a way to get means, or the means to get a way."

Tia Dalma tilted her head, studying him, and her heavy ropes of hair rustled against her shoulders. He offered her another ring, a gold one shaped vaguely like a dragon, but she waved it off.

He made a lengthy show of patting at his pockets. "I'm afraid I have nothing else to offer." Only his pistol and his sword, both of which he needed. He might need them just to get out of here alive. "You'd be surprised how difficult it is to pillage and plunder without a ship."

"You speak like a pirate," she said. He scratched his arm irritably through his sleeve, and she laughed. "Pirates do take de brand, but de brand do not always make a pirate." She rescued the black and silver ring from the table, considering it briefly before slipping it on her thumb. "And treasure do not always mean trinkets."

She tasted like rum and fruit and the barest hint of tobacco. Her tongue was as bold and forward as the rest of her, and it pushed between his lips without hesitation. Her small hands slid along his jaw, fingers tangling in his hair. He grasped her by the hips, ready to bring her into his lap, but she smiled against his mouth and pulled away.

"Three questions, Captain." A trace of mockery tainted her tone, and she hid a smile behind her mug.

"Where is my ship?"

"At de bottom of de sea."

"I already knew that."

"Den why you ask?"

Jack sighed heavily. This was not going according to plan. At this moment, the plan had washed so far downriver it was likely adrift in the open ocean.

"Can I get her back?"

"It is possible," she replied, "but not probable."

"Right," Jack grumbled. He could still taste her, still feel her mouth against his, and a long swallow of rum didn't wash her away. " _How_ can I get her back?"

"You'd need make a deal wit' de Devil."

"Only?" Jack asked brightly. "Easy enough, I should think." He closed his eyes, and in a heartbeat, he was manacled to the mast of The Princess Royal. Flames swallowed the Pearl's sails as water poured into her hold, and at the Royal's rail, Cutler Beckett was laughing. "I'm sure the Devil has nothing on my former employer."

"A man do not work for de Company," Tia Dalma said softly. "A man is worked by de Company. He sell him soul to it, or he die."

"Or he becomes a pirate," Jack said.

Tia Dalma nodded, and tipped her mug in a toast. Jack drained his own, and reached behind her for the bottle."

"You've a healthy thirst," she commented.

"Ah, yes," Jack replied. "But I'm a healthy man." Tapped down too far, the cork refused to budge, and he pried at it with his fingernail. "Hale, some might say. Hearty, even." The cork sprang free with a muffled pop. "Now, if you would be so kind, I have one more question."

"Payment was for three," she argued. Catching his arm, she rescued the bottle, but she didn't release him after she set it aside. "Payment was for three, and three you did ask."

"You cheated on the first!" he insisted. He tried to pull away, but her grip was firm, and her thumb brushed against his wrist.

"My answer was fair, for de question you ask," she said. "It is not my fault you did not speak yourself clear."

Jack slid his hand into hers, entwining their fingers. "I want one more."

"Den you shall pay for it."

Jack stood swiftly, pushing her against the table. Her lips were soft and full, warm with rum. Her mouth parted easily, falling open at the first flicker of his tongue, and she hummed when it touched her own, a soft noise that Jack felt over his skin.

He pulled her closer, his hands pressing into the small of her back before slipping down to curve around her arse. He kissed along her jaw, tracing the sharp line with his lips and tongue, sucked lightly at her neck. She murmured when his teeth grazed her skin, strange words Jack didn't understand, and she arched against him, her fingers curling in the loose folds of his shirt.

"How can I find the Devil?" he asked.

"Dat is worth more den a few kisses, Jack Sparrow."

"Captain," Jack growled, and her laugh was deep and rich, like the river rushing against the banks.

Too many clothes, he thought; pleasurable company generally had the sense to come to bed in naught but a shift. And he decided, as he fought with the row of tiny buttons marching down her front, that women's dresses were designed by the Devil. Or priests. The buttons surrendered, finally, just as he threatened them with the business end of his knife, and he pulled it open, revealing smooth skin and round, full breasts.

She kissed him, sharp teeth nipping his lips before she laughed and sucked his tongue into her mouth. She busied her hands with his clothes, unbuckling his belt and untucking his shirt, and her fingers were warm as they they trailed over his chest. He dropped his head down to her breasts, pulling a nipple between his lips, and with a hitched breath she moved restlessly against him.

There was nothing but heat beneath her skirts, heat and skin and the soft curve of her hips. Her legs fell open as his hands skimmed up her thighs, and she shifted toward him, pulling him closer, shifted until she was half off the table.

"You'll fall," he warned.

"If you do not catch me, de Devil will."

Jack slid inside her with one long thrust, his mouth at her neck and his fingers digging into her hips. She rocked up to meet him, smooth and slick around him, and he hissed as her fingernails bit into his shoulders.

It had been too long. Three days in Nassau, tired and shipless. A week on a French fishing vessel, and another week wandering Petit Goave. Several days hiding in the hold of a passing Dutch Indiaman, where he'd overheard the men talking about the witch-woman who lives on the river. When he finally reached Tortuga he had a plan, but not the time or coin to seek out a woman.

He kissed her, hard and fast, sweeping is tongue across her lips before dipping it inside. She moaned into his mouth, arching against him, and she wound her legs around his waist, urging him, pulling him closer. She countered each of his thrusts, hips snapping up off the table, and heat coiled low in his belly, rushing through his body.

Tia Dalma came with a shudder, with her teeth on his neck and a half-caught breath that burned over skin. Her body tightened around him, hot and slick, and he followed, pushing into her once more before tumbling over the edge.

She smiled.

"We're square, then?" Jack asked. His trousers were in a hopeless tangle around his feet, and he hadn't a clue what she did with his belt. "Paid in full?"

"In part," she replied, buttoning the front of her dress. "Sit. Have a drink."

The rum was warm.

"Your ship, dey sink it where?" she asked.

"Nassau," Jack replied. "Two leagues south of the port."

The claws rattled as she scattered them on the table. She studied them silently.

"You will stay wit' me for three days," she said finally. The slight curve of her lips said what he would be doing for the duration. "You will den row back out to de sea. At de mouth of de river, you will follow de coast east."

"East," he repeated. He peered at the claws, wondering what she saw that he did not.

"East, yes," she said. "East, you will find a ship anchored in a cove -- de Iron Cutlass. De crew will be ashore, looking for treasure dey will not find, and de watch will be asleep from drink and de heat."

"I'm to take this ship, I assume," he said. "Commandeer her, as it were?" She nodded, and Jack laughed. "And somehow, I'm to shove her off all by me onesies?"

"De watch," she said. "De watch will be a man called Barbossa," she added, producing from somewhere a small coin etched with a strange marking. "He know me. You give him dis, and he will help you sail."

"Right," Jack said. "Downriver, then east. Ship in a cove, with every man ashore, save one who's asleep." He drained his rum, and set his mug on the table. "I wake the lazy lout, hand him this bit of copper, and then we're off after my ship, which is still at the bottom of the ocean."

"You'd best pick up a crew," Tia Dalma advised.

"Aye, a crew," Jack replied. "To sail a ship that's not mine, to save a ship that is mine, except that she'll still be at the bottom of the ocean, where sadly, I cannot go." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Perhaps this friend of yours will have some ideas on how to drain Nassau Port."

"Your ship not at Nassau," she said. "Your ship at World's End. Dis is why you need make a deal wit' de Devil."

"The Devil," Jack repeated. "Also a friend of yours?"

"De Devil has no friends," she said, rising from the table. She tinkered around in the next room; Jack was treated to a solid round of thumps and clangs and bangs as he helped himself to another tot of rum. She returned with something small and black and square, which she handed to him with a smile. "Open it."

It was a compass. More correctly, it was a compass, after a fashion. It looked a good deal like a compass, but it had no directional markings, and the arrow spun merrily before settling on a point just over Tia Dalma's left shoulder.

"It doesn't work," Jack said. He tapped it, and the arrow swivelled between Tia Dalma's shoulder and the door to her shack. "It doesn't point north."

"Do you need to find north?"

Jack paused, his gaze flicking between the compass and Tia Dalma. "I suppose not."

"Den it works."


End file.
